


Where Everlasting Ruin Awaits

by yellowwarbler



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Demons, M/M, Mindbreak, Monster sex, Roman Catholicism, Unrealistic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowwarbler/pseuds/yellowwarbler
Summary: [Ra'sTim Week Day 6: Priest AU] Stripped of his title and excommunicated, Tim uses his spiritual abilities to help the people of Gotham in hopes of one day convincing the Church they were wrong about him. Then Batman and Nightwing come to him with a case.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Ra'sTim Week 2021





	Where Everlasting Ruin Awaits

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [LuthienLuinwe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienLuinwe/pseuds/LuthienLuinwe) for beta reading and giving me all the details on Catholicism!

The Gotham Gazette has been running the same story for a week straight. Tim's kept all the articles and has them pinned to his cork board so he can frown at them every time he walks by.

GOTHAM TERRORIZED BY SERIAL KILLER? GORDON STUMPED!

THE BAT GONE BAD?

SIX CHILDREN DEAD, MANY MORE MISSING

GOTHAM'S DARKEST HOUR

A serial killer is the _least_ of Gotham's concerns. Tim flips open a different book, looking for a specific chart, and bites back a curse when his search comes up empty-handed once again.

"You look busy, Father Tim."

Tim startles. Papers blow off the desk, scattering to the floor. When he jumps to his feet and looks at the open window, Batman looks unrepentant. Nightwing, at least, smiles apologetically.

"My name is Tim," he says after a moment, stooping down to gather up the papers. "I'm not a priest anymore." He's not _anything_ anymore. The reminder hurts, a pain unlike any other. He hadn't lasted a year in the priesthood. "So if you need an actual priest, you'd better keep looking," he adds when he sees the stubborn set of Batman's jaw. He's surprised by how much he wants them to leave. 

"I'm aware the Catholic Church released you for professional differences."

That's a very diplomatic way of putting the worst moment of Tim's life. Trying to shake off the unsettling stab of fear at the reminder, Tim smiles. He doubts it's a convincing one. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Nightwing wanders over to Tim's corkboard and taps the articles. "I think we can help each other out."

"The missing kids," Tim realizes. "You're working on it?" He wonders what they've found that brought them to him. He wonders if they've also read the signs. All at once, the fear is gone, replaced by a young hope.

"We've been working on it since the first body turned up," Nightwing confirms. "The evidence doesn't point to a serial killer. At least, not one like the media is trying to spin."

"To put it bluntly," Batman takes over, "we believe there's occult involvement. You were recommended as the foremost exorcist in Gotham."

Tim doesn't consider himself the foremost anything. He stumbled into exorcism as a way to save himself only for it to cost him everything. That it's his only source of income now is as disturbing as it is unwelcome. But he can't turn away Batman and Nightwing, not when they've come to him. 

Not when they could be offering him the opportunity he's been searching for on a silver platter.

"Of course," he says. "Whatever you need. I can't in good conscience ignore this." He might not have a title, but he has the ability to help. Whatever the reason, Tim's abilities must be important. They _must_ have a purpose. If they don't...

"You sure you're not still a priest?" Nightwing jokes. 

"A vocation isn't something you can just forget." If Tim's voice is a little cool, he thinks he can be forgiven. Having his life ripped out from under him isn't something he's happy to crack jokes about.

"Sorry, man." At least Nightwing looks sincerely apologetic.

Tim waves him off, clearing his throat. "You said your evidence points to occult involvement. What did you find?" 

"Statues crying blood, destruction inside churches with no explanation, poltergeist-like activity. It's not something we see very often in Gotham." Batman scowls. "Every magic user that calls Gotham home has left. Are you familiar with Jason Blood?"

"We've met." Jason Blood took one look at Tim and said excommunication was the least of his worries. Tim isn't overly fond of the man. "I find it hard to believe demonic involvement would scare him away."

"So you agree it's a demon." Nightwing's back to looking at the corkboard. "What's with the kids, then?"

Tim rubs at his eyes. He didn't realize how late it was. The clock on his wall shows it's nearly two in the morning. "Innocent blood would be my first guess. Maybe even spiritual energy. Some entities feed off that alone. The younger the spirit, the greater the power boost." 

"Of the bodies, all six children exhibited the same symptoms prior to disappearing: emotional instability, heightened strength, and hallucinations." Batman reaches into a small pouch on his belt and takes out a flashdrive. "Here. My files. Take your time looking into them."

Tim takes the drive, staring at the black bat insignia on the casing. It's heavy for such a little thing. He could probably drop it in the road and run it over and it'll still work just fine. "Thanks."

"The newest file is what we actually came here to speak with you about." Batman sounds almost hesitant. Nightwing moves back to his side, apparently finished poking around Tim's apartment. "We've found the child I believe to be the next target."

"That's amazing!" Tim feels a thrill of hope. "As long as they haven't disappeared, I might be able to detach the entity. Where's the child?"

"He's Damian Wayne. Bruce Wayne's son."

Tim deflates. He sits down heavily at his desk. "Jeez, of course it goes after the Wayne heir… Mr. Wayne's never going to believe this."

"On the contrary," Nightwing interjects. "Wayne is the one who came to us. He said something was wrong with his kid."

That's great, but… "Why would he come to you? How would he even know where to find you?"

"Wayne is something of a beneficiary. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this must stay between us," Batman says.

"Believe me, I'm well conditioned to secret-keeping." Priests are bound to keep confessions secret. If he looks at the situation sideways, this is kind of a confession from Batman, and Tim's not about to break a vow. Not in his situation. He sets the flashdrive aside. "So what's the plan? If Mr. Wayne's on board--"

"How soon can you be ready to perform an exorcism?" Batman asks, cutting him off.

"Immediately," Tim says. "But how do we know that's what's needed here? I'd like to meet Damian first."

"I'm sure that'll be fine, but it's best to come prepared. Wayne doesn't like waiting, and he's freaking out as it is." Nightwing shrugs. "Do you know where Wayne Manor is? He'd like you there tomorrow morning."

"Everyone knows where Wayne Manor is," Tim leaves out the part where he used to live next door. "I can be there tomorrow. Will, ah… will you both be coming?"

"Daylight isn't really our scene," Nightwing admits, cracking a grin. "But Wayne will be expecting you."

They expect him to just waltz into Wayne Manor and say _oh, hi, I'm here to see if your son is possessed by a demon_ without someone calling the cops on him? Tim looks between Batman and Nightwing and eventually slumps. These guys are heroes. Doing the right thing is what they do. There's no way this is some elaborate prank. "If you say so… and if it turns out Damian isn't possessed?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Batman says. 

Yeah, Tim figures. He supposes they will.

Batman and Nightwing leave, and Tim, shaken by the sudden visit from Gotham's heroes, finds himself unable to sleep. He tries and dreams fitfully, fragments of memories and fantasies. He sees the face of Father Will twisted with inhuman rage, claw like hands reaching out toward him. He sees the Archbishop of Newark in the moment of his excommunication. Tim's mind tosses the fragments around, muddling the emotions, blurring the truth. He wakes an hour later in a cold sweat, weeping bitterly. For a moment, just a moment, he feels an old weakness. He wants to beg, to pray for forgiveness.

But he can't. The words are there, _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb..._ But if he's wrong, if he's truly not welcome…

Tim would suffer a thousand more tragedies than live with that knowledge.

He spends the early morning hours getting supplies together and reading over Batman's information. Something isn't clicking for him. A demonic possession doesn't fit the evidence, but Batman is so certain. How is Tim supposed to argue with that?

He can't, that's how. So he doesn't. Instead, Tim finally gives up on his quest for a definite answer and gets ready just in time to make it to Wayne Manor at half past ten.

Driving up the long sloping driveway is nothing like Tim remembers. All those parties, the endless parades of galas, and Tim still isn't used to the sight of the Manor towering above him. He hasn't been here since he was child, and the intimidation factor hasn't dropped at all.

Batman wasn't lying. Tim is expected at the Manor. When his car pulls up to the main gate, it swings open for him without missing a beat.

He pulls into the circle at the foot of the stairs leading into the manor. His little 2012 Civic feels horrifically out of place next to all this opulence. Tim gets out of the car and tries not to stare too obviously. Once, he was part of all this. 

"Mr. Drake?" An elderly man is standing at the front door. "We've been expecting you. I'm Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Wayne's butler. Please, follow me."

"It's nice to meet you," Tim says, holding out a hand. When Mr. Pennyworth doesn't shake his hand, he drops it awkwardly by his side.

Feeling wrong-footed, Tim steps through the archway into the house, waiting for Mr. Pennyworth to close and lock the door again. The moment he sets foot inside, he feels it. A wrongness, a sense of evil. It raises the hair on the back of Tim's neck. He's struck by the urge to shove the elderly butler out of the way and run back to his car.

"Master Wayne is in his office. He's been looking forward to speaking with you." 

"I'm looking forward to speaking to him as well, though I'm sorry for the circumstances." Tim shakes off the feeling and follows, a step behind, until they arrive at two closed doors. He has a responsibility here. A child's life hangs in the balance. Cowardice would be inexcusable.

Mr. Pennyworth knocks sharply, then opens one side. "Mr. Drake is here to see you, sir." 

"Excellent. Come in. Have a seat." Mr. Wayne is sitting at his desk. He closes his laptop and gestures to a nearby empty chair.

Mr. Pennyworth leaves, closing the door behind himself, and Tim takes a seat. He tries to stifle the growing sense of anxiety. Batman and Nightwing came to _him_ for help. People are counting on _Tim_. He can't let fear consume him. He has to prove his worth. He grabs his pendant, smoothing his thumb over the worn lettering of Saint Anthony's name for comfort.

Mr. Wayne slides a paper across the desk at Tim. It's a non-disclosure form, Tim realizes. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Wayne watches Tim as he signs the form, then snatches it up, satisfied.

"Well, Mr. Drake, you come highly recommended. Do you think you can help my son?"

Just like that? Tim shifts in his seat, uneasy. "Sources indicate possession," Tim begins, cautious. "But I'd like to meet your son and get a feel for the extent of the demonic involvement." He's not convinced it's a simple possession. There's something more here, whether Batman wants to admit it or not. The average layperson isn't equipped to diagnose spiritual afflictions like Tim is. 

"I trust your sources," Wayne says. "Damian is spirited, but recently…" He hesitates. "He's become...angrier. Wild. I almost thought it was just a normal phase, but…"

Tim sits up straighter, staring intently at Wayne. "But?"

"He's been talking to himself. And not all of it in English or any other language he knows. It's like he sees someone we don't, and he's incredibly secretive about it. It almost sounds like gibberish." Wayne grimaces and rubs a hand over his eyes. "If Alfred and I weren't looking closely, we'd never have noticed it."

"It could be an imaginary friend," Tim suggests. "Sometimes--"

"He's eleven, not three," Wayne says dismissively. "This is abnormal behavior, I can assure you. Do you have much experience with children?"

"None," Tim admits. He was an only child, homeschooled for most of his formative years. He lives alone, and even during his time with the Church, he led largely a solitary life. Maybe Wayne can tell. Tim thinks Wayne looks at him and finds him wanting.

"You'll see. He's in the yard," Wayne says, pointing out the window behind Tim. "Go see him." 

Tim looks out the window toward an enormous sprawling lawn lined with topiaries. A boy is out on the grass, sitting cross legged. While Tim watches, a big black dog comes sprinting up to the boy and drops a tennis ball in his lap. The boy picks it up and throws it, watching the dog bound off gleefully. 

"Does he know why I'm here?" Tim asks, watching the boy play.

Wayne shakes his head. "The less he knows, the better."

He probably knows too much as is. Tim heads back the way he came and then goes left instead of right to the front door. He walks through the kitchen and out the French doors onto the patio. Damian is around the other side of the manor, so Tim follows the wall until he sees the topiary.

Damian spots him immediately. He puts his hand on the dog's head, then climbs to his feet, narrowing his eyes. He's young but looks older than his eleven years. Tim would have guessed thirteen. His skin is quite a bit darker than his father's, and his eyes are such a vibrant shade green Tim assumes they're contacts.

He's also shrouded in the darkest aura Tim's ever seen.

"Hi there," Tim greets him, waving. "Your dad asked me to come by. I'm Tim."

Damian says nothing at first. He looks Tim up and down, his expression shuttering. If Tim hadn't seen the contentment on his face when he played with the dog, he's not sure he'd be able to imagine Damian doing anything other than scowling.

"And what are you supposed to be?" Damian asks snidely. "A hired playmate? I'm hardly desperate. I have Titus."

Tim looks at the dog sitting by Damian's side. "I'm sure I'm not good company," he agrees easily. "The competition's too stiff for me. Actually, he just wanted us to talk."

Damian's scowl deepens. "A therapist," he says flatly. "I wasn't aware he thought me a lunatic."

"Plenty of people see therapists who aren't lunatics," Tim says, skating around the edge of the truth. "He's worried you're not adjusting well. And anyway, it's just this once. If you've got nothing to hide, then you've got nothing to fear."

Rather than relaxing, that makes Damian stiffen up even more. Tim briefly has the impression of the darkness surrounding Damian reaching out and touching the boy's shoulder, but when he blinks, it's gone. Damian shrugs and jams his hands in his pockets.

"Let's just get this over with," he mutters.

There's something there. Tim bites his lip, hesitating. He needs to actually touch Damian to get a sense of it. Something is attached to him like a parasite. Tim reaches out and lays his hand where the impression of darkness was on Damian's shoulder. Just as quickly he jerks it away, holding the hand close to his chest.

"Don't touch me!" Damian glares.

Tim fumbles for the pendant tucked carefully beneath his shirt, smoothing his thumb over his Saint's name. Something is wrong. Something is very, _very_ wrong. His hand feels cold, icy even, a numb tingling sensation where he touched Damian. And above the physical, Tim is struck with a sense of evil. It isn't like Father Will, isn't like any possession case he's ever seen. Damian _isn't_ possessed, of that Tim is certain. The truth of the matter remains beyond him.

"I'm sorry," Tim says, cringing at the wobble in his voice. He steadies himself, squeezing the pendant one last time before tucking it away. "I need to, um--" Think, think, "use the bathroom! Yes, so, where would I need to go?"

Damian looks at him like he's an idiot. "Inside."

"Okay, right." Way to be smooth. Tim jogs back to the house with Damian's gaze burning into his back. He needs to get away from him. He needs to talk to Wayne.

Mr. Pennyworth is waiting in the kitchen for him, hand drying long stem glasses as he pulls them from the washer. "Have you gotten the impression you were hoping for?"

Tim wipes the sweat from his brow, feeling chilled now that he's indoors. "I need to discuss this with Mr. Wayne."

"Not necessary," Mr. Pennyworth says. "Master Wayne has already left for the day."

 _That_ stops Tim in his tracks. "Left?" he echoes, tone rapidly becoming indignant. "He hired me to perform an exorcism on his son, then he _left_?"

"He hired a professional for a reason. And I am capable of making any decisions necessary. Are you ready to begin?"

Ready to begin? Damian's father left him with the butler and a virtual stranger claiming to have spiritual abilities with the intention of having his son exorcized. He just... abandoned him. Tim feels even less ready now. He looks over his shoulder but can't see Damian through the open doors. 

Does Wayne always leave his son alone like this? In this big empty house, no one his age to play with… a picture spins itself for Tim. He remembers that loneliness. He knows it well now.

A child so isolated would be a perfect target.

"He'll need to be secured," Tim starts, hesitant. "I don't know if I'm comfortable doing this without Mr. Wayne present."

Mr. Pennyworth turns his full attention to Tim now, disregarding the dishes. "Are you or are you not capable of handling the situation, Mr. Drake?"

Tim resists the urge to fidget like a child. Mr. Pennyworth's frigid gaze reminds him of his mother, God rest her soul. "I am…"

"Then I'll thank you kindly to do your job." He turns away, grabbing another glass. "As it happens, I've prepared a room that should suit your needs. Gather what you must. I'll come for you when Master Damian is situated."

Situated, like he's just going to tuck Damian in for the night. The casualness chills Tim to the core. "I'll be right back."

He's never felt like his services were a business transaction before, like all it amounts to is money exchanging hands. It feels wrong, like so much else in Wayne Manor does. Tim feels like he's not doing the right thing, holds the guilt like a heavy stone in his gut. 

_It's fine_ , he thinks as he grabs a bag from his car. _I'll just refuse the money. It was never about that anyway._

He's got a Good News Bible with him, though he's never used one for a job. The Holy Water is much more important, though his stores are running low now that he can't bless it for himself. He _could_ get some from the local church, but part of him is still a little frightened of going inside. Tim shifts through the bag, touching each item with reverence. Everything is in its place. He swings the bag onto his shoulder and heads back into the Manor.

Mr. Pennyworth isn't in the kitchen, and the doors to the back patio are closed. Tim sits on a bench at the breakfast bar, unable to shake the sense of unease hanging over him.

It takes another twenty minutes for Mr. Pennyworth to reappear. He's stripped off his blazer, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His shirt is dampened with sweat. But despite his haggard appearance, Mr. Pennyworth isn't out of breath when he says, "This way, Mr. Drake. Master Damian is ready for you."

Tim follows him deeper into the Manor, the darkness growing with every step. It's like the evil hovering around Damian is seeping into the very walls of the structure. There's an undeniable residue hanging about, and it's strong enough to make Tim second guess himself. 

But he can't dig his heels in like he wants to and refuse to move forward. Tim has to follow through with this. He has to make things right.

Damian is in what looks like a guest room, the windows drawn and the room dim. He's seated on an old wooden chair, his hands bound behind his back and his legs tied to the chairlegs. When Tim steps inside, Damian levels him with a glare.

"You're not a therapist," he accuses.

"Not really." Tim puts the bag down on the vanity by the door and opens it, grabbing the jar of holy water. "But I _am_ here to help."

"I fail to see how this is helping me," Damian snarls, flexing against the restraints. The chair creaks alarmingly. 

Maybe Wayne is onto something. No eleven year old should be so strong.

He looks back at Mr. Pennyworth where he's standing in the hallway. "Would you like to come in?" 

But Mr. Pennyworth's face is suddenly pale and wan. He shakes his head. "Call for me if you need me. I don't believe I can be of any help here."

It's just as well. Tim closes the door, shutting the outside world off from the dark space of the room. He and Damian are alone now. Tim rolls up his sleeves and feels for the spark of power deep inside him, his last and best link to the Almighty.

It's time to begin.

________

Tim was never trained for exorcisms.

It's a coveted skillset in the Church, one granted to seasoned priests after years of experience. Tim didn't get any of that. He fell into it, really, trying to save his own skin. He hadn't even understood what was happening. But he'd managed to burn the devil out of Father Will like it was what he was born to do.

The Archbishop hadn't agreed.

Excommunication is the final act, barring him from Heaven. Heresy, they'd told him. Madness. Tim _isn't_ mad. He just wants to help.

All he's ever wanted to do is help.

"You were in there for hours." Mr. Pennyworth hands Tim another glass of water.

He downs the drink just as quickly as the first. "It took some convincing."

"It? Then you really did find--" Mr. Pennyworth covers his mouth. "It's gone now?"

Tim's mouth twists. There's something still not right about all of this. The entity attached to Damian fought Tim every step of the way. Hours in and it seemed as unaffected as when Tim first set foot in the room. It wasn't until he laid his hand on Damian's forehead that something shifted.

The entity spread over Damian like a shield, an almost tangible darkness. It slithered over Tim's hand like the cursed serpent itself before vanishing. The room had brightened instantly, and Damian slumped against the restraints, panting.

"It's gone," Tim confirms, though the question of where it went remains on his mind. The entity wasn't cast back to Hell from whence it came. No, it got up and walked out of Damian. But why? For what purpose? Tim can't help but wonder if he didn't just doom another child, one whose parents aren't as well connected as Bruce Wayne. 

"Master Damian…" Mr. Pennyworth sighs, and Tim can see the first sliver of emotion breaking through that frigid mask. He must have been terrified for the boy. 

"He'll be alright," Tim promises. "Exhausted, but otherwise well. He might not remember anything about what happened. Be patient with him, Mr. Pennyworth. The worst is over."

"Alfred."

"I'm sorry?"

"You can call me Alfred, Mr. Drake." He takes Tim's hand and squeezes it "Thank you. For everything." He lets Tim go and clears his throat. "Let me get the checkbook."

"No," Tim says quickly. "I can't accept money. Not for this." 

Alfred frowns. "I was given to understand that you take payment for your work."

"Sometimes," Tim says. "But not always. And this…" He hesitates. "I don't need anything for this. I'm glad he's all right."

 _Let this be enough_ , Tim thinks. His hand reaches automatically for his pendant. _Let me back in_.

He doesn't stay after that. Wayne Manor still sets Tim on edge, something about the darkness lingering in the old house. Alfred sees him to his car. It's when Tim slams the trunk that he feels it: the weight of eyes on him. He looks back to the door only to find it shut, Alfred gone. He looks around, anxious, and finally sees it.

Damian is standing at the window of one of the upper story rooms, watching Tim with a curiously blank expression. His fist is clenched in the curtain. The exhaustion Tim expects is nowhere to be found. The boy could be a statue, unaffected by the world around him.

Then the curtain flutters. Damian is gone.

Tim stands there, staring up at the spot where the boy was, for several minutes. Then he hurries into his car and starts down the long driveway, glad to have Wayne Manor in his rearview mirror.

________

The murders stop completely after that long day at Wayne Manor. The missing children begin reappearing. None of them have any recollection of where they've been or how much time has passed. Tim watches the news with growing enthusiasm. _He_ did that. He helped those kids.

He still doesn't know what caused it.

Batman and Nightwing don't check in with him, and Wayne doesn't call. For a solid week, Tim hears nothing from the family and decides to consider that particular chapter closed. He refocuses his attention on incoming jobs.

The letter's arrival catches him by surprise. It's stuck in the crack between his door and the arch near the doorknob and drops to the ground with a thud when Tim heads out to grab his paper in the morning. Stooping down, he picks up the envelope and raises an eyebrow at the bulge on one side, turning it over and finding it blank save for the neatly written _Father Tim_ on the front.

Seeing the title leaves a sour taste in Tim's mouth. He tucks the envelope under his arm and heads down to the lobby to collect the paper before returning to his apartment. It's early still, not quite six in the morning, and the building is eerily quiet and dim. Tim turns on the coffee machine and sits at the table. Glowering at the letter does not make it go away, unfortunately, so he resigns himself to opening it.

 _Father Tim_ , it begins in a flowing script Tim's only ever seen from the Archbishop of Newark, an elderly man approaching his nineties. The ink is red and contrasts starkly with the thick white paper. _In light of my grandson's father's terrible manners, it falls to me to thank you for your timely assistance. Damian is stronger than he's ever been. More than that, he's been singularly fascinated with your particular skillset ever since. I fear I can't keep up with his questions. If you'll indulge this family further, please contact me at the below number. Take this gift also as a token of my gratitude. Yours,_ and a signature in what looks like Arabic script, though Tim can't be sure. It's the fanciest handwritten letter he's ever seen, let alone received, and the so-called token of appreciation is an honest-to-God writing quill.

It's an enormous feather, glossy and black. When Tim holds it up to the light, it looks multicolored like an oil slick, vibrant and strangely beautiful. The end is sharp enough to tear through the paper when Tim taps it down. It's a beautiful gift, one he's happy to accept, but he doesn't see how he can use it. Ink wells aren't a thing anymore, last checked.

He takes the quill and drags a circle over an empty corner of the letter, and as if by magic, red ink appears.

Tim looks at the tip of it, then back at the paper. "Must be a real pen after all," he mutters. It certainly had him fooled. 

The phone number printed below the signature catches Tim's attention again. It would be rude not to thank Damian's grandfather. He'll have to call him at a more reasonable hour. 

Tim puts the letter out of his mind while he sorts through his email and reads the paper, but mid-morning the quill catches his eye again. He grabs his phone and dials the number, twirling the quill in his hand.

But the voice he hears isn't an elderly man's. "Hello?"

Tim frowns. "Damian?" he asks, hesitant. 

A long pause. Then, "Drake?"

Tim looks back at the number. He dialed it right. He's sure of it. "I'm sorry, Damian. I thought this was your grandfather's number. I'll just try--"

"No!" Damian blurts. "He's here! I'm with him."

"I don't want to bother him," Tim says, suddenly uneasy. Hearing Damian's voice so unexpectedly took Tim back to the Manor, to the overbearing darkness inside it. Maybe calling was a mistake.

"Wait," Damian is almost shouting. "Do not go anywhere! I will get him. He wants to speak with you."

"If you're sure…"

"I am," Damian insists. "Promise me you will not go anywhere." It's a demand, not a plea, but Tim finds it difficult to deny him. 

"I'll wait. Go ahead." The line goes silent. He assumes Damian put the phone down to go fetch his grandfather, but what is he doing with his grandfather's phone in the first place? It must be a landline. 

"Father Tim," a voice says, breaking into his thoughts. 

"Just Tim, please. I don't have a title anymore."

"Their loss, I suppose," Damian's grandfather says. His voice is deep with just a hint of an accent. "If I had someone with your talent, I'd never let them leave my sight."

Tim shifts uneasily. He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder, fingers smoothing over the feathered end of the quill. "I appreciate the gift," he says, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "It's beautiful. Is the feather real?" Something about the man's voice is absolutely entrancing, the cadence of it relaxing Tim despite the discomforting subject matter. 

"It's real," he says. "I plucked it myself. But it's a mere trinket."

"No, really, it's perfect. You didn't need to go out of your way, though, Mr…."

"Forgive me," the man says. "Ra's. Ra's Al Ghul."

"Ra's," Tim repeats. He likes the sound of it. Ra's is magnetic, the force of his personality drawing Tim in even through the phone. "It's good to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine. Now, I'll hear no more denials. Let me decide who deserves to be thanked. You've done a great service for me, you know."

"Have I?" 

"My grandson holds a higher purpose. He's the world to me. You've set him free, Timothy."

Tim is bizarrely flattered. He feels like he did in seminary, when he was the shiny young prodigy with his whole future ahead of him. "I'm glad I could do that for you," he finds himself saying. The words are out before he can stop them. "I mean, for Damian."

Ra's laughs, a low rumble that sends a shiver through Tim. "For Damian," he agrees. "Of course."

They end the call a short time later. Tim feels a surge of regret when he hears Ra's' end of the line go silent. Then, as though resurfacing after a long time underwater, Tim returns to himself. 

The feather is still in his hand, his thumb stroking it gently. He didn't dislike speaking with Ra's, but now that he can't hear his voice, Tim can't understand what drew him in like that. It's as though something in him recognized Ra's, maybe as a kindred spirit. The urge to call him again, to ask to speak with him longer, strikes Tim. He drops the quill and pushes away from the table, leaving the phone behind.

"I should take a walk," he says aloud to the empty apartment. All this time alone clearly isn't doing him any good.

But later that night, Tim finds himself dialing that number again. Damian picks up again, just like before, but rather than nervous Tim is impatient. It isn't until he hears Ra's' voice that he relaxes.

It quickly becomes a pattern.

Tim talks to Ra's every day, each conversation longer than the last. It's as if the year following his excommunication built up so many secrets, so much despair, that Tim's heart has been holding out for the first outlet it could find. Ra's becomes his Confessor, the holder of Tim's failings and desires. It isn't until the dreams begin that he realizes something isn't right.

He dreams of Ra's' voice in his ear, of being wrapped in darkness, caressed by it. It's unbearably intimate. Tim wakes up in a cold sweat, hard between his legs. 

He thinks he's made a mistake.

Ra's never asks to meet Tim, but if he did, would Tim go? Would he let Ra's touch him? The thought alone makes him squirm. He's leaking in his boxers, the fabric sticking to the head of his cock. Tim's afraid just baring himself to the cold air of the room will get him off, he's so close. 

Something's wrong. Tim's never been interested in sex, never craved the touch of another person. Celibacy comes naturally to him. To feel lust so strongly is outside of Tim's realm of experience. If there's a poison, it must be cut out. That's what Tim has always believed. But to call Ra's a poison? It feels too cruel.

A part of him still longs to speak to the man, but he doesn't know if it's safe. He can't take the chance of breaking his vows, nevermind that he's already been laicized. He can't risk injuring his soul anymore than he already has. If he does, if he falls any further, he's afraid he'll never find a way to make them take him back.

That day, for the first time, Tim ignores his phone when Ra's calls.

He needs the distance to think. It's worse that he's between jobs. There's nothing else to focus on. Tim needs to be productive, needs to have his hands in something. 

So he decides to follow up on an old case.

Bruce Wayne's phone number isn't one he expected to ever use, but nevertheless, the man does pick up when Tim calls.

"Mr. Drake," Wayne says. "I didn't expect to hear from you."

Tim takes his meaning immediately: Wayne didn't _want_ to hear from him. "I wanted to see how Damian's doing," he says. "His grandfather seems to think everything is fine, but it's always good to have another perspective."

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, "Alfred isn't his grandfather. And I didn't know you were speaking with him."

"No," Tim tries again, confused. "I mean Ra's. Mr. Al Ghul?"

Again, silence. If not for the sound of Wayne breathing, Tim would think he hung up. Then, "You know him, then. Ra's."

"We've spoken," Tim says. He leaves off how extensively they've been speaking over the last few weeks. "He seems very attached to Damian."

"Attached," Wayne echoes. His voice is difficult to read. "I suppose he is. Mr. Drake, I'm afraid I've got an important meeting to attend. We'll pick this up later." He hangs up abruptly.

Tim puts the phone down and frowns. Wayne didn't seem happy that Ra's has been in communication with Damian. He knows through the media that Damian's mother is out of the picture and Wayne's own parents are long dead, so Ra's is obviously the mother's father. Is he not supposed to have contact with Damian? The more Tim learns, the stranger it all seems.

A job comes through on his email, and Tim takes to the distraction eagerly. Having a task to focus on clears his mind of worries. When he returns home later that afternoon, his conversation with Wayne is far from his mind.

Then Ra's calls.

It rings three times before Tim finally decides to pick up. Avoiding the issue never helps. "Hello, Ra's."

"Timothy," Ra's greets him. "I've been concerned for you. Damian's father said you called him."

Tim's stomach twists. Maybe it's guilt. "I was thinking about Damian. I wanted to ask if Mr. Wayne had any concerns."

"I told you, didn't I? My grandson is well. There's no need to worry for him."

How easily Ra's leads Tim. He has to shake off the stupor that comes over him at the sound of Ra's' voice. "I should have called you," Tim says. He's dreading the words almost as much as he's eager to get them out. "I'm concerned about--that is, it might be better if we stop speaking."

"Have I offended you?"

"No," Tim is quick to deny. Ra's, offend him? It seems foolish to even think. If anything, Tim is the one at fault. "I've told you about my situation. About the things I need to do."

"And I've told you the church doesn't deserve you," Ra's returns. "Tell me what you mean. What you _really_ mean."

"There are...certain vows I intend to keep. I want to live just as I did before."

"And you think I would prevent this?" Ra's sounds intrigued. "I don't believe we should discuss this over the phone. Such matters are best handled in person. You'll come to me." He decides this with a final kind of certainty Tim can't bring himself to argue with.

"Tonight?" Tim asks. 

"No, not tonight. I have a meeting. Business to attend to." Ra's hums thoughtfully. "I'll send you my address. I live on Wayne's property, at least for the moment. You'll come to me tomorrow, Timothy."

"Yes." Tim clutches the phone tighter, dazed. "I'll come to you tomorrow."

________

Wayne Manor sits on a property spanning nearly thirty acres. Tim drives past the manor, following Ra's' instructions, and eventually turns onto a gravel road leading into an undeveloped part of the property. It's eight o'clock, and the sun has long since set. It's a new moon, so the only natural light comes from the barely-there dots of light, the slight glimpse of stars Tim can see through the smog and light pollution from the city. Tim can barely see as he goes down the road, and the trees grow thicker even with his brights on.

The sound of his car driving over the gravel makes him wince. He's so distracted by the roar, he nearly misses the sudden narrowing of the road where it becomes a dirt footpath. Tim slams on the breaks, his seat belt locking. He's just about to pull out his phone and call for better directions when someone knocks on his window.

Jumping, Tim lets out a breath, his heart pounding, when he sees it's just Damian. "What are you doing out here?" Tim asks, rolling the window down. 

"You have to walk the rest of the way. Grandfather asked me to bring you." Damian looks startlingly pale in the light pouring out of Tim's car. There are dark bags under Damian's eyes that Tim doesn't recall seeing when they last met.

"Are you okay?" He has to ask. 

"Fine," Damian bites out. "Hurry up. It's cold out here."

It's July. Tim had the air conditioning cranked all the way on high in the car, but he doesn't argue. Damian's probably scared of the dark. Given what he's been through, Tim can't blame him. He certainly won't give him any grief about it either.

He rolls the window up and turns the car off, climbing out. "Is it okay to leave it here?"

Damian shrugs. "It won't matter."

Well, it _is_ his family's property… 

Damian pulls out a flashlight, and with a last lingering look at Tim, he leads the way down the footpath. It grows narrower as they walk, overgrown. Tim stumbles over a root stretching across the length of the path more than once.

"Ra's really lives out here?" Tim asks. "It seems like a lot of trouble."

"He likes his space." Damian never looks back at Tim. "Hurry up. You're so slow!"

Tim hurries after Damian, trying to stick close. It's so dark that nothing is visible outside of the line of light from Damian's flashlight. Eventually, the path widens, and Tim can see a lit window attached to a very small cabin. He opens his mouth to say something, but Damian cuts him off with a yelp. The boy goes sprawling forward, his foot caught on something on the ground. The flashlight bounces a few feet ahead.

"Are you all right?" Tim crouches down, offering a hand. To his surprise, Damian takes it. His palm is wet with something.

Damian is quick to let go and jogs over to grab the flashlight, pointing it at Tim. "Sorry," he says, sulking.

"It's fine. You okay?" Tim glances down at his hand and sees a bright red smear. "You're bleeding."

"Cut my hand on a rock." Damian shrugs. "Come on."

They make their way to the cabin, sticking closer together. "You should stay," Tim says, speaking into the silence of the forest. "I'm not comfortable with you walking back through that alone. I'm sure your grandfather feels the same."

The set of Damian's shoulders go tense. "It's fine. I'll be fine. Just shut up."

Tim reminds himself that Damian's had a difficult time. His family, odd as they are, doesn't seem to be helping. He wants to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder and offer some kind of comfort, but he knows it won't be welcome.

They make it to the front door of the cabin. It doesn't look lit anymore like it did from a distance, the windows dark. Tim turns back to Damian, but he's standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.

"Go ahead," Damian says. "You don't need to knock. Grandfather's waiting for you."

Tim glances at the door, then back to Damian. "Are you sure you won't come?" The forest is dark and so quiet, more silent than he thought possible. Does nothing live in there? It's summer, yet he can't hear a single cricket.

Damian starts walking away, disappearing down the footpath without another word. Tim watches him go before turning back to open the door.

He grabs the knob and feels a zing, like a static shock. It hurts, and he jerks his hand away, hissing. He doesn't even turn the knob, but the door swings open as if by touch alone.

"Timothy," Ra's' voice greets him. "I've been expecting you. Come inside." He's a great deal younger than Tim expected, more like a man in his fifties, only the hair at his temples beginning to gray. And he's _tall_. 

Tim steps inside, and the air seems to ripple. It's not a dingy little cabin he steps into. It's a mansion. Tim suffers a moment of complete disorientation when the door swings shut again. "How….?"

"You look puzzled," that oh so familiar voice seems to purr into his ear. "Something troubling you?"

Is something bothering him? Tim can't seem to remember. "No," he says, his voice faint. He clears his throat and tries again. "No, I'm fine. Your home is lovely, Ra's."

And it really is. Tim is standing in a foyer at the foot of a grand staircase. Ra's' home makes Wayne Manor look like a pale imitation. It's all rich reds and gold, dark woods, and a classic style like something out of an old movie. 

"Thank you." Ra's settles his hand low on Tim's back. "This way, then. I understand there's something you'd like to discuss with me."

Something Tim wants to tell him? Tim grasps at his thoughts, unable to recall what seemed so important. "Is there?"

Ra's escorts him to a sitting room. He gestures for Tim to sit on the loveseat. On the low table, a tray sits with two cups and a carafe of coffee. It smells delicious. Tim sits down, and Ra's sits next to him.

He pours a cup for Tim and passes it over. "I believe we've become well acquainted," Ra's begins, watching Tim carefully. His eyes are so bright, a shade of green Tim didn't know existed. 

"We have," Tim is quick to agree. The coffee is strong, a dark brew, and it tastes better than anything Tim's tired old machine could make. 

"You're one-of-a-kind, you know." Ra's' voice is hypnotic. 

"I am?" Tim feels dazed and stupid, his tongue thick.

"There are threescore queens, and fourscore concubines, and maidens without number," Ra's quotes, reaching out to touch Tim's face before sliding into his hair. "My dove, my undefiled, is but one."

"Song of Solomon," Tim murmurs, leaning into that hand. He's here for a reason, wherever here is, but his head feels empty. 

"Your purity is only a fraction of the draw," Ra's continues. "Do you know how rare it is to find an eternally damned soul so pure? Thrumming with spiritual power?" He laughs, a dark sound that sends a faint tremor through Tim's body. "I've searched for you, Timothy, for centuries upon centuries."

The haze surrounding Tim abruptly clears, reality snapping back into place. He feels cold suddenly. "What are you talking about? Ra's, what is this?"

"Even now, you're too strong to remain under my thrall for long. I knew it would be so. That just makes you all the more appealing, my key."

Tim shoves away from Ra's. He can feel it, all at once, the same darkness he touched back at Wayne Manor. "You're--you're a demon! You're not Damian's grandfather. You're still attached to him!"

"Not quite," Ra's says. He's still sitting on the loveseat, not at all concerned with Tim's accusations. "I _am_ the boy's grandfather. Without him, a male of my blood, born of two worlds, I wouldn't be able to speak to you. To touch you."

He's standing next to Tim suddenly. Tim whirls around, but Ra's doesn't give him the chance to escape. He holds Tim by his hair, forcing him chest to chest. 

"You used him," Tim snaps. "Just to get to me!"

Ra's lets him go with a laugh, watching as Tim stumbles back toward the loveseat, jarring the table. "Damian knows his place. He did as instructed. And you, Timothy, were wonderfully predictable."

The shame burns at Tim. He's been so desperate to prove himself, clawing for any bit of grace he could find, that he missed all the signs. "You can't keep me here. I'm not enthralled anymore. I'll send you back to Hell." He raises a hand, but nothing happens. 

"It's far too late, Timothy. The ritual has already begun. You drank of my blood."

"I didn't!" Tim cries, but he looks down at the table, at the cup. It spilled when he kicked the table, but rather than coffee, a red liquid was splashed across the surface. Blood. 

_Demon's_ blood.

The color drains from Tim's face. "No…"

"Oh yes," Ra's says, his eyes glowing brighter now. "You accepted me, Timothy. Every gift I gave. You let me feed off your energy, all of your desires. You'll be the final key I need to gain entry into the mortal realm." He looks down at Tim, hunger in his eyes. "This world will be mine, and _you_ handed it to me."

A tear slips down Tim's face as the horror sets in. "No," he breathes, frozen where he stands. "I didn't mean it. I don't want this!"

Ra's leans forward and licks the tear up. His tongue is forked and unnaturally long, appearing to slither out of his mouth like a serpent. "You _do_ want this," the demon murmurs. "I felt it, how close you were to breaking your vow. How desperate you were to be wanted." His breath is hot against Tim's cheek. "Don't worry, my dove. I _do_ want you. And I'll have you. I'll break you apart, fill you with a greater pleasure than you've ever known. Once your sacrifice," his hand is on Tim's ass, squeezing, "is complete, I might even let you live. You'll look beautiful squirming on my cock, _Father Tim_."

Tim lets out a cry of fear and starts to struggle. His vision is spotting, and all he can hear is the demon's laughter.

Abruptly, Ra's releases Tim, sending him crashing into the ground. Tim scrambles up and runs from the room, but the hallways have changed. Every door he opens leads further into the mansion. He can hear Ra's' voice as though he's somehow speaking directly into Tim's mind.

"There's nowhere to run. You came to _my_ realm. Do you really think there's anywhere you can go where I can't reach you?"

Tim's heart slams against his chest in time with the pounding of his feet on the ground. He has to keep running. If he stops, the demon will be there. Ra's will hurt him. He'll--

The hallway dissolves around him, and suddenly Tim is back in the sitting room. He runs headlong into Ra's who merely catches him and locks his arms around him. Ra's' eyes glow bright in the dimly lit sitting room. He's larger than before, at least two feet taller than Tim, and at his temples two enormous spiraling green horns jut outward. The illusion of the handsome man who offered Tim coffee is still there, juxtaposed over the slowly appearing visage of the demon. Tim blinks rapidly, and the room around them flickers, giving way for a split second to a decrepit looking cabin. Just as quickly, the sitting room is back. The human Ra's pretends to be returns.

"There's no need to struggle, my dove," Ra's murmurs. "Let me have you, and you'll want for nothing. Let me give you the man you've been longing for."

Tim thrashes in his grasp. "You're a liar! I know what you are, and no magic will change that!" He can feel the last slip of grace leaving him, and he knows this is the end. Ra's will take him, will seal Tim's damnation. Pretty words can't change that. "I won't give you what you want."

"Pity," Ra's says, his pupils shifting into cat-like slits. "Then I suppose I'll just have to take it."

When the room flickers and goes dark, it's for good this time. The abandoned cabin reappears around Tim, dark and dusty, filled with broken furniture. Against him, Ra's seems to expand, growing taller and broader. His eyes stay that eerie green, but they grow larger, two smaller eyes opening above them. The horns return, growing upward. His skin greys, losing the healthy golden hue Ra's' human form had, and Tim can feel claws digging into his back and sides where those massive hands hold him in place.

Tim whimpers, his vision blurring. "Let me go!" he cries, slamming his fists against Ra's' hulking frame. 

Ra's drops him on the ground again, but when Tim flips on his belly and tries to crawl away, an enormous cloven hoof steps on his back, pinning him down. "You're mine," the demon rumbles. "There's nowhere to run, my dove."

The pressure on his back vanishes, and Tim screams as his shirt is torn down the back. Ra's' claws tear through his clothes like tissue paper, baring his body. The sharp edges cut his skin where they slide across his back and hips. Tim shakes, horrified. Ra's is going to rape him. He's going to tear Tim apart. What if he puts those claws _inside_ him? Tim will die. He'll be ripped to shreds. 

He lets out a frightened moan at the first touch of something against the cleft of his ass. Tim looks over his shoulder. Ra's is crouched down behind him, that massive gaping maw opened wide and his tongue extended, lapping at Tim, playing with him. The tongue is forked at the end and starts off narrow but thickens as it stretches back to Ra's' mouth. It must be at least three feet long. 

"Please," Tim begs. He tries to crawl away, but Ra's grabs him around the waist. His clawed hands are so large the fingers overlap where they encircle Tim. His tongue slides into Tim's crease, pressing against his hole. Tim kicks out, squirming, trying to get away, but he can't stop it. The tongue breaches him, shallow at first. Tim shrieks when it suddenly thrusts deeper, inches more of it sinking into him. 

"No," he babbles over and over, trying to clench down and force the thing out. "Take it out, Ra's, please!"

The tongue doesn't stop. It pushes deeper, widening as it goes. Tim's toes flex against the ground, his thighs trembling. He's never had anything inside of him before. He's never been touched so intimately. He wants it _out_.

When the hateful thing finally withdraws, Tim nearly collapses in relief, but he chokes on that same breath when it thrusts forward again. Ra's is raping him with his tongue, thrusting it in and out, forcing Tim's body open around it. Even with the demon holding him in place, Tim's body rocks back and forth on his hands and knees. To his shame, he feels his cock harden and rise between his legs. Tim squeezes his eyes shut, panting. "No, please…" He tries to squeeze his thighs together, to stop the sensation, but his body won't be ignored. It hits him without warning. Ra's' tongue plunges deep, glancing his prostate, and Tim comes with a scream. His entire body seizes up, shaking, as he comes on the dirty floor for what feels like forever.

When it finally ends, Ra's' tongue slides out of Tim's body, and he lets Tim go. His limp body collapses forward, his arms and chest hitting the ground, his hips up. He pants, sobbing against the floor. It's over. Ra's forced his body to betray him, breaking the last of Tim's vows. But it's _over_.

Behind him, Ra's growls. Those enormous hands grab his waist again, dragging Tim closer. Something hot and hard brushes against his ass.

Tim looks over shoulder. He wishes he hadn't.

Ra's' hulking frame is down on its knees, hunched over Tim. The demon's erection, easily as thick as Tim's arm and nearly as long, hangs thick between his legs, angry and wet. 

It's too big, Tim realizes. If Ra's puts that in him, it will break him. 

Adrenaline surging, Tim tries to pry the clawed fingers off of him, tries to push away from the monster, but it's useless. Ra's laughs at him, the head of his cock resting against Tim's hole.

"Your fear tastes delicious," the demon says, tongue lolling out. "I can taste it on the air. Exquisite." He pushes forward. Tim yelps, struggling harder, but the bulbous head still breaches him, stretching his hole wide around it.

"It hurts!" Tim cries. "Take it out! Ra's, it's too big, it'll break me--"

Another inch sinks in, then another. He pulls out and begins thrusting shallowly, trying to open Tim wider, to reshape Tim's body to fit his cock. Tim scrabbles at the ground, mouth hanging open. He can feel drool sliding down his chin. 

He's going to break. He's going to be torn apart, fucked to death on that massive erection. Tim won't survive this. He'll die.

Ra's keeps thrusting, sliding wetly in and out of Tim's body. He uses his grip on Tim to work him back and forth on his cock, using Tim's limp body like a sleeve. 

There's so much of him still not inside of Tim. Will he force it in? Will Tim have to take all of that? He whimpers at the thought, terrified. The feeling of something so large inside him is overwhelming, and it quickly gets worse. Ra's starts to swell, his thrusts coming faster, harder. Tim is lifted slightly into the air as Ra's growls.

Tim feels the first pulse and starts thrashing again. "Not inside me," he begs, knowing at once what the sensation means. "Please, not that, there's not room, I can't take all of it!"

But Ra's pays him no mind. With one last thrust, he sinks another inch into Tim's tight hole and comes, flooding Tim's ass. Tim grabs his belly, feeling the cum bloat him, filling him. He moans, pained. When Ra's puts him down and pulls out, cum slides out of Tim, down his thighs. His hole feels like it's gaping open. 

"Look at you," Ra's says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Tim's well-used hole. "Defiled. Afraid. Begging for mercy."

"You got what you wanted. Let me go," Tim pleads. "It hurts…. I can't do anymore than this…"

"You'll take more," Ra's tells him. "You'll take my cock, every part of it, and in the end, you'll beg for my seed." He mounts Tim again, sinking in even deeper. Now that Tim is open and wet, Ra's gets half of it in on the first thrust, laughing when Tim squeals and grabs his belly. 

Is that Ra's? There's something there, just barely, bumping repeatedly against Tim's hand where it's pressed tight to his lower abdomen. Every thrust fills the cabin with shameful wet sounds, Tim's body pulling Ra's in deeper. He wants it out of him, wants to get away from the cabin and Ra's, to hide in his apartment and never come out. He wishes he could drift and send his mind elsewhere, but no matter what Tim does, he remains painfully aware of what's happening to him. Every thrust sends a complicated blend of sensations through him, sparks of pain where he's stretched too wide and white hot pleasure where Ra's' erection hits him just right. He can't escape the feeling. He can only endure it.

When Ra's comes this time, Tim barely does more than whimper brokenly. He closes his eyes, weeping silently, and feels it dribble out of him. 

"You're close," he hears Ra's say. 

Close to what, Tim doesn't know. But he doesn't fight it when Ra's picks him up this time. He's flipped against Ra's' chest, his head resting on the demon's shoulder. 

He doesn't fight it when he feels Ra's breach him, but he does feel a jolt of alarm when Ra's doesn't stop. Gravity takes control and Tim sinks down--and down, and down. He feels it open him entirely with a deep ache, reshaping his body. When he looks down, he can see the shape of it through his belly, a bulge trailing up to his belly button. Whimpering, Tim puts his hands on the shape of it, pressing down. "All of it," he pants, trying to catch his breath. "It's in me. All of it is _in me_..." He's so _full_. 

Ra's uses his grip on Tim's thighs and ass to work him up and down on his length. When he drops Tim down a second time, Tim comes helplessly, clenching down on the intrusion and spilling cum across Ra's abdomen. Ra's keeps using him, dragging him up and down through Tim's orgasm, never giving him a second to catch his breath. Tim leans forward, exhausted, letting Ra's take his full weight.

"It's so much," he moans, eyelashes fluttering. He can barely keep his eyes open against the onslaught of overwhelming sensation. 

"I'll fill you up even more," Ra's purrs. His tongue slides against Tim's neck and up again, lapping at his face before fucking it into Tim's mouth. Tim just….takes it. He opens his mouth and let's Ra's fuck his tongue in, stroking against Tim's. He doesn't linger. The tongue pulls out, and Tim swoons toward it, still attached by a string of saliva.

"Give in," Ra's urges, tongue withdrawing again. "Let the pleasure consume you."

Tim feels Ra's swelling inside him. If he comes that deep, what will happen? It aches inside him. Surely there's no more room? Tim leans back, tongue hanging out as he pants, drooling. It's so much. It's all _so much_.

Ra's slams into him one last time, burying himself as deep as he can in Tim, and comes. It feels like fire spreading inside of his body, hot and wet. This time, Ra's doesn't stop. He keeps fucking Tim, cum forced out around the width of his cock with every movement. Tim's stomach bulges, and he cries out. 

"It feels good," he pants, hands on his distended belly. "Please, I want to come, put more in me--"

Everything goes hazy. Tim's thoughts scatter, lost in pleasure. All he can focus on is that enormous cock driving into him, filling him with cum. He wants it, more of it. He wants Ra's to use him until there's nothing left, to break him. He wants, he wants, _he wants_ \--

Tim thinks he's coming, but it never ends. He spasms around Ra's, cock dribbling cum at an alarming rate. Ra's finally pulls out, letting Tim's body purge its load, and sets Tim on the ground.

Struggling weakly, Tim gets on his knees and elbows, wiggling his hips back. "I need more," he slurs. "Please, I need your cum, put it in me, fuck me until I break!"

The air around them shivers, and as though from a distance, Tim feels something warp and break, popping his ears. But he doesn't care. He just needs more.

Ra's scoops him up and carries him to the door. Without so much as a snap, the entire front wall of the cabin explodes outward. Tim paws at Ra's, hips rolling where he's trapped in the demon's arms.

"Quiet, pet," Ra's rumbles. He carries Tim outside and looks up at the sky, those slitted green eyes narrowing, pleased. "I'll keep your hole filled. There's no need to fret." He lets Tim scramble out of his arms and onto the grass. 

"Hurry," Tim begs. He needs it. He'll die if he doesn't get it. 

When Ra's finally mounts him again, Tim loses the ability to speak at all, his entire consciousness reduced to whines and moans. The cock inside of him is everything. He doesn't need anything else.


End file.
